


Natalis

by Fluxit_Aqua_et_Sanguine



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Birthday Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-20 02:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18982936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluxit_Aqua_et_Sanguine/pseuds/Fluxit_Aqua_et_Sanguine
Summary: Do you know when angels are born?





	Natalis

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this casually for my friend and writing partner on her birthday (today, 26 May!) and found that I'm kind of fond of it. Wanted to post it because I haven't posted anything for this fandom in eons.
> 
> Do tell me what you think, if you have any thoughts!

“Angel, when is your birthday?”

You hadn’t been sure about asking the question. Angels were Heavenly beings; you didn’t know if they celebrated particular events or if they even really had days of ‘birth.’ You believed that angels were God’s own host. Were they born at the moment of Creation? You had no way of knowing. And yet… your angel was so close to you. He felt so nearly human, as warm and loving to you as your father had once been. It had been just under a year since you had first heard the voice of your angel, and you wanted something, _any_ pretext at all to do something material for him.

There was a long silence. You felt your cheeks begin to prickle, and almost retracted your inane question, before your angel responded:

“I have no birthday.” It wasn’t an unexpected answer. But the sigh, the immense sadness that accompanied those few small syllables were. You furrowed your brow at your reflection.

“Oh, Angel, but you _must!_ Perhaps it is the day of Creation. Or the day of the Ascension? Tell me, Angel, and I’ll do something grand for you on that day!”

Another silence; another moment for you to gaze long into the glass, into your own blue eyes, over your own pale face that seemed to shift the longer you watched it, as if shadows were moving behind your reflection. You heard a collection of the random noises of the Opera—the scuttling of slippered feet in the hallway, the low drone of distant voices; the sighing of doors being closed for the night—but not your angel. _You_ sighed, and, thinking yourself abandoned, made to leave, when at last his golden voice washed over you again.

“I am not a man, Christine. I do not share in such… earthly things.” Another silence, a short one, before he whispered to you, an intimate murmur in your ear: “You are a delightful child, to think this way. To think that you need provide for your angel’s happiness. Do not fret, Christine Daaé. Your happiness is mine; the success of your song is all I shall ever need.”

You smiled, and left your angel with a fond farewell, and yet still you were not content. For days afterwards, you began to try to puzzle out a suitable date. You thought of many dates that were referenced in the Bible. You thought even of days that were significant to the heathen gods: to Greece’s Apollo, the Master of Music, and his muses of song. Nothing seemed quite right, and you demanded that the day be _absolutely_ right.

At last, almost a week later, it came to you as you were waiting for the sopranos’ turn to sing a plodding passage of Bach's _Nun Danket Alle Gott._ You wondered how it took you so long to come to you, and you hoped that you hid the revelatory smile that spread over your face as the thought occurred. Certain questioning looks in your direction made you think that you hadn’t, but you found that you didn’t really care. You’d found the perfect time… now all you needed was the perfect gift.

\-------------------

You always arrive at Christine’s rooms before she does. You not only love to indulge in _her,_ in the commonplace things that remind you of your beloved, but you like to assure yourself of your continued solitude. It must always be just you and she.

You look out the mirror as you always do, out of that curious oculus, that great, full-length excrescence that hardly suits her or the room, but is so necessary to you. A portal to the world of angels. You smile; your face contorts painfully, and you struggle not to fall into a hideous reverie, bemoaning your life and your fate and the ravaged form that keeps you ever entering the room beyond the glass. You just escape it, knowing that you will be seeing her in but a few minutes.

There is nothing to indicate another presence. You think that the room is quite the same as it always is. You think the same fantastical, wild thoughts you always do on these occasions: That you might take the steps tonight, that you might tell her who you are and how you love her and how you would come through the mirror and embrace her…. You think these things for several languid moments, and you are almost content with these.

But then you see it.

Your eyes, sharp even in the darkness, catch sight of a piece of paper on the floor, just in front of the mirror. It doesn’t look as though it has been casually dropped there: rather, it is facing you, sitting on the floor facing you as if you— _you!_ —were meant to read it. You fall to your knees and greedily take in the page, stripping it several times before its meaning begins to bleed into your brain.

It is music. Simple, sweet music, comprised only of a treble melody. But there are words, too, a gentle line of words that speak of unending love and devotion. At the bottom, there is a note, addressed to the being you so assiduously pretend to be:

_“Angel—_

_Do you remember, Angel? You first came to me on this night a year ago._ You _can’t have been born then. I know that. But_ I _was born again that night. You gave me new life, and I needed to give you something in return._

_Happy Birthday, Angel!_

_With all my love,_

_Christine Daaé.”_

You weep. You weep so that you cannot see the delicate tune she wrote for you anymore. You weep so that you cannot see and adore each of the beautifully-crafted letters that comprise her note. You weep so that you can feel nothing, nothing but the tears falling from your eyes and the love that may burst your heart.

You hear her enter the room and call out for her angel… and you flee. She cannot hear you like this; she cannot know how you, a monster, were so moved by her. She will know that you are no angel, and she will love no more. You were not meant to own her love in that way. You cannot even own her gift, the small, brilliant thing that she made, not even knowing you.

But you will remember it. You will transcribe it as best you can in your disjointed hand and wish that it were hers. You will read it to yourself, poring over it in your mind, whenever you long for her. You will find yourself humming the delightful little melody, that music she composed _almost_ for you, in unexpected moments.

You will remember it, her promises of love, and the birth date she fabricated for you... you will remember it all unto your dying day.


End file.
